


The Spring, Clad All in Gladness

by goldenhart



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Vague Attempt at Humour, Boating, Friendship, Gen, Oxford, light mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21608425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/pseuds/goldenhart
Summary: But there is only so much time a man can spend before he begins to tire of his own company, and so one sunny morning I decided to attempt to try and persuade Holmes to accompany me on an adventure of our own.Holmes and Watson go punting on the Cherwell River. It does not go as planned.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 35
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019





	The Spring, Clad All in Gladness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OldShrewsburyian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/gifts).



> Many thanks to sanguinity for encouragement and beta-ing.

It was not long after the affair of the phantom flower of Manaus had come to its curious conclusion that I found myself for a time in the city of Oxford, accompanying my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes while he pursued some line of research in the great library there. It was May, a wonderful time to be so near to the country, where every hedgerow and tree seems alive with birdsong, and the air itself is fresh and vital. I spent my days on long walks, through Port Meadow to the ruined nunnery of Godstow, along the River Isis to the village of Wolverhampton, or up to Boars Hill. But there is only so much time a man can spend before he begins to tire of his own company, and so one sunny morning I decided to attempt to try and persuade Holmes to accompany me on an adventure of our own. 

I found him in the Bodleian, squirrelled away in an ancient oak-panelled library with some enormous volume he claimed contained everything a man could ever wish to learn about the ancient families of Buckinghamshire. 

“I say, Holmes,” said I, peering over his shoulder at the spidery handwriting that covered the page, “What say you to a spot of luncheon and some fresh air?” 

To my surprise, Holmes shut the book with a resounding thump, polluting the air with a thick cloud of dust that made my eyes water. “Watson,” he declared, “I do believe that’s the most sensible thing anyone has said to me all day.” 

It seemed that Holmes could still call in a few favours from his university days, for within an hour we found ourselves on the Cherwell in a punt, one of those unwieldy flat-bottomed vessels that seem to be the quintessence of scholastic torpidity. I was given the task of captaining the boat while Holmes lazed about on the cushioned seats, smoking a pipe as he directed me on how best to steer the thing.

“Left,” he said, and when the punt moved right he sighed and shook his head. “No, no, Watson, _left_ , I said.” 

By this time no more than a half hour had passed, and still we were within sight of the tower of Magdalen College. “If you wish to take charge of this thing, then by all means do so,” I muttered, discarding my jacket and rolling up my sleeves, but Holmes waved a languid hand in my direction. 

“No, not at all,” said he, indolent devil that he is. “Far be it for me to criticise the captain.”

It was considerably easier to manoeuvre the boat without constant commentary, and an hour slipped by as we slowly wended our way upstream, sheltered from the sun by the spread of the greenwood. At last, the rumbling of my stomach declared it was time to eat and so I steered the punt to the riverbank and Holmes made the boat fast, looping the painter around a length of sturdy root. 

“Right then,” I said, rubbing my hands as I sat down across from Holmes. “What’s in the hamper?” 

The kitchen at Holmes’ old college had been most generous — one of the cooks, a plump, matronly woman, remembered Holmes fondly and had packed our basket accordingly with a variety of cold sandwiches, a cold steak pie, half a plum cake, and a bottle of lemonade. She had also slipped in a bottle of claret, which Holmes informed me with a devilish grin was of a vintage normally served only to the Provost of the college and his guests. 

It was a fine wine, perhaps a little too fine for such a mere afternoon picnic, but I was in no mood to tender any complaints. The food was delicious, the company superb, and I soon felt quite relaxed. A swan, puffed up like a barquentine under full sail, came swimming towards us, and I tossed a handful of bread towards it which it gobbled up greedily. 

“I take it you dined with the Provost when you were a student, to know about the vintage of the wine?” I ventured, but Holmes shook his head.

“Alas I, poor commoner that I am, was ever relegated to the benches at the end of hall on those rare occasions I deigned to appear for dinner. Now before you appear astonished, I do not know this from some feat of deduction, but rather that this bottle is identical to one that was presented to me a long time ago by a friend after a nasty run-in with his bull-terrier. I suspected then, as I know now, that he obtained it in a less than proper fashion.” 

The swan had circled back, and I offered it a bit of crust. “He stole it?” 

Holmes nodded sagely. “Sayers, the college butler at the time, had a reputation as a lush, and a single bottle would not be missed. And Trevor, good and honest fellow though he was, had a bit more of his father’s spirit in him than he would care to admit.” A sombre expression settled on his face as he examined the bottle. “It’s a curious thing, Watson, that after all these years I should return to college on account of a theft. Oh, yes,” he said, seeing my surprise. “There has been a theft. That is why I was summoned here, that is why I have remained here these last few days, ostensibly to pursue my own line of research while in fact I have been nosing around in an attempt to solve this case. Naturally it’s all been very hush-hush, as the Provost doesn’t wish for any undue attention to be drawn to the college, not when those involved are academics, and highly-regarded ones at that. But I fear attention will be drawn, for it seems to me that this case is for once as straightforward as it appeared to me when the Provost first wrote me.”

“If that was so,” said I, “Why did you not go alone?” 

“You know as well as I that I would be lost without my Boswell,” he said, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “But in this instance, I fear you can lend little assistance; the case is as elementary as any man might wish. It involves two fellows of the college, both of whom, as I am given to understand, are under consideration for the Palmerian Professorship of Anglo-Saxon. The first, Mr Giles Staverton, you may have heard of — he was in the papers earlier this year for his involvement with the so-called Bocardo Hoard, which, amongst other things, contained a ring believed to have been given to the daughter of Alfred the Great by the King of Mercia on their wedding day.”

“And what of the second gentleman?” 

Holmes rubbed his chin. “Mr Thomas Lathbury is also a scholar of some note — a renowned linguist who wrote an excellent series of monographs on the deciphering of Anglo-Saxon rune poetry. Sometime ago Lathbury and Staverton had a falling out, however, and according to the Provost have been at each other’s throats ever since. It only got worse after the theft of last week.

Two weeks ago, the Bocardo ring — as it is referred to — was removed with permission from the Ashmolean Museum’s collections by Staverton, who endeavoured to study its inscription further. He took the ring to his rooms, where he spent the afternoon. He dined in hall, and when he returned to his room the ring was gone. Now, Staverton’s rooms are on the first floor overlooking the Fellows’ Garden — by some misfortune, Lathbury’s rooms are right beside his.”

The swan was beside us now, and I threw it more bread, beginning to regret that I had ever begun to do so. “Let me guess, Holmes,” said I. “You think Lathbury’s gone and done it.” 

“The evidence is there. Staverton left the ring on his desk, which sits beneath a window; he is a keen ornithologist and keeps note of what birds visit the garden, often feeding them seeds from a dish on his window sill. When he left for hall that evening, he left it slightly ajar — it had rained earlier that day and he wished for some fresh air. When he returned the window in the same position as before but the ring was gone. He had locked his door before he left, and the only other key belongs to his scout, Rawlinson, who was on an errand in town. When I investigated Staverton’s room I found two clues: the first, very thin scratches on the window sill — perhaps those made by a kind of nailed shoe. The other, and perhaps most curious, clue: a cryptic mark hastily scrawled on the corner of Staverton’s notes.” He withdrew from his pocket a notebook, and showed me a reproduction of the mark. It looked like a Y with a vertical line drawn through the centre.

“It looks rather like a rune, doesn’t it?” I said, and Holmes smiled. 

“My thoughts precisely. According to my research it represents the Anglo-Saxon rune _algiz_. And who in college has an expert knowledge of runes and would furthermore stand to gain something if Staverton should be made to look like a fool?” 

“Lathbury!” I exclaimed. The swan darted away from the punt, startled. 

“Precisely. He has the ability too — Lathbury is a mountaineer of some note, so to climb out of his window and walk along the narrow ledge to Staverton’s would be nothing to a man of his skill. It seems the rune was a threat to further violence, too; the evening after I first arrived and began sniffing around college Lathbury and Staverton came to blows in the quad and had to be pulled apart by the porters. Lathbury was furious at Staverton — over what, he would not say — and only the threat of the police made him civil again.” He frowned. “So you see, Watson, I fear it is only a trifling matter after all, not at all the sort of thing worth any expenditure of ink. I intend to speak with Lathbury tomorrow and see this brought to a close.” 

In all our long years of friendship I have learned to read my friend’s emotions considerably better than he often gave me credit for. “Something doesn’t sit right with you,” I ventured, “Or else you would not be speaking to me at such length about this case.” The swan had circled back and was now headed towards Holmes’ turned back, but I ignored it, certain it would forget about us once it realised I had no more bread for it. “Holmes, if I may be so bold — I cannot help but wonder if you are reading altogether too much into this. It seems to me that Oxford is the sort of place that naturally conjures up mysteries in a man’s mind, mysteries of a more esoteric variety than might be found elsewhere. Legendary mallards, ghosts, giant stone heads that walk, runes — it’s the stuff of fairy stories, Holmes, not reality. What if that rune is just a mark? Could it not be that Staverton simply misplaced the ring and is ashamed to admit to it? Or perhaps his servant stole it.” 

Holmes was sombre for a moment as he thought, but then he grinned, his face lighting up. “But of course!” he cried, nearly upsetting the boat as he rose to his feet. “The servant! The mark!” Hurriedly he whipped out the notebook and flipped through it until he seized upon the right page. “Aha! This isn’t an _algiz_ rune at all!” He turned the book upside down and thrust it in my face. “ _La gazza ladra_! The thieving magpie!” 

“Holmes,” I warned, but he carried on, unaware of the swan lurking a mere few feet behind him.

“Lathbury was too obvious a suspect,” said he, “And the motive was a flimsy one, although it has been known for scholars to be so petty as to stoop to thievery. But a magpie — the scratches on the windowsill — the footprint!”

“Holmes,” I hissed. “Swan!” The creature had leapt on the prow of the punt and was now advancing, wings puffed, towards Holmes. 

“Swan? Goodness, Watson, no. No, this mark is that of a magpie’s foot.” A low, deadly hiss emerged from the swan’s bill, and Holmes turned in time to see the swan raise its wings as it took one clumsy step towards him, then another. 

“Swan, Holmes,” I said. 

“Yes, very good, Watson, I can see it,” said he, carefully stepping backwards, never once looking away from the menacing bird. “Be very still. No sudden movements. These creatures detect fear like sharks sense blood.” Still the swan advanced, its wings outstretched, its neck drawn back and poised to strike.

“Holmes,” I said, in a low and cautious voice. “What are we going to do?” 

“Watson,” he answered, “How is your swimming?” 

He was in the river before I could answer, striking out towards the opposite bank. I followed, the loss of my jacket immaterial when compared with any damage I might have sustained to my person from the swan. We hauled ourselves out on the muddy bank opposite, bursting with laughter at our near escape. 

“A swan, Holmes. Of all things,” I gasped, rolling onto my back, my suit thoroughly ruined. 

Holmes chuckled and rose to his feet. “You forget the magpie.” He offered me his hand and I stood, dripping wet and sticky with mud. 

“Ah yes, the magpie,” I said, as he led me through the brush into the meadow beyond, towards his old college. “Remind me, how is it you came to that remarkable conclusion?” 

“I did say that this Staverton fellow was a keen ornithologist, did I not? In his notes he’d written of a pair of magpies that had a nest in a hawthorn tree at the far end of the garden. He would often leave out a dish of seeds for the birds — I imagine on this particular evening a very clever magpie saw something a bit more intriguing than its usual dish. I cannot fathom it would take the ring back to its nest — in all my years I have yet to come across a case which matches the story put forth by Rossini — so it seems the most likely resting place of the ring is in the garden beneath Staverton’s window. Care to test my theory?”

It has often been remarked upon in my other writings that my long association with Sherlock Holmes has led me into a number of unusual situations, however, standing guard for my friend while he burrowed like a badger beneath rose bushes was not a circumstance even I could have foreseen, especially when it was preceded by a rather awkward scramble over a ten foot high brick wall. 

“Quickly, Holmes,” I whispered, “I hear footsteps!” 

“Almost,” I heard him mumble, then, “Aha!” 

It was unfortunate that of all people to turn the corner into the Fellows’ Garden it should be the Provost and Giles Staverton. 

“I say,” said the Provost, glancing between me and the man wriggling out of the rose bush, “What the devil’s going on here?” 

The Provost was a tall, thin man with an eager face that gave him an almost youthful appearance in spite of his white hair. Staverton, in contrast, was young, no more than thirty, and built like a rugby player, an odd contrast to his retiring manner. 

“Ah, Provost!” exclaimed Holmes, leaping to his feet, something clutched in his fist, mud smeared across his cheek. The Provost’s face darkened, and I wondered idly how many years Holmes had been a source of trouble for him. 

“I had hoped, Mr Holmes, that the last twenty years made you a little less impossible than when you were under my tutelage.”

Holmes was smiling as he examined the object in his hand. “Ask Watson, he’ll tell you I’m as hopeless a case as they come. Now, what does this say here? ‘ _Aethelred mec heht gewyrcan,_ ’” he read.

“‘ _Æthelred had me made_ ,’” translated Staverton. “But — that’s the ring!” 

“Indeed it is,” said Holmes, presenting the muddied ring to Staverton, who accepted it with trembling hands. “I believe you leave food out for birds?” 

“I do.” 

“And on the night the ring was lost, did you put a dish out then?” 

Staverton turned the ring over in his hand, his face aglow with pleasure. “No, not that night, on account of the rain we had that afternoon.”

“And what do you know of magpies?” 

“Magpies?” Staverton looked up. “You cannot mean…” 

“A clever magpie, used to finding food on your window sill, returns one evening to find that there is nothing for him. He does, however, spot a very shiny treasure just inside. Perhaps he believes this is food, perhaps he is curious. He hops through your window, leaving the scratches on the sill, steps onto your notes, his muddy footprint leaving the mark, snatches up the ring, and takes it back outside. When he discovers he cannot eat it, he drops it, and it falls into the garden. If only all thieves were so honourable.” Staverton and the Provost both shook their heads in astonishment, and I tried not to smile. “Now, Watson,” he said, turning his attention to me, “I have some things to discuss here with these gentlemen, as well as an apology to make to good Margaret, who I fear will not be getting her basket back quite yet. Why don’t I meet you at the hotel in two hours?” 

It was a sensible suggestion, and so naturally I agreed, in truth eager to get rid of the mud that was fast drying on my clothes. It was a long walk back to the hotel, but to my surprise no one gave notice; perhaps, in this city, they had seen far stranger sights than a man covered in mud. At the hotel I washed and dressed for dinner, and sent my clothes off to have the mud wrung from them. At five o’clock a freshly-scrubbed Holmes found me waiting by the reception. He seemed particularly pleased with himself, and it did my heart good to see him in such a happy mood. 

“The Provost has invited us to dine with him in hall tonight,” said Holmes. “I sent your jacket off to be cleaned, I hope you don’t mind. It was rather trampled.” 

“Never mind that,” said I. “Better my jacket be trampled by that beast than you or I.” 

Holmes grinned. “Now come along, Watson,” said he, “I believe we’re due a place at the high table.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Conan Doyle never specified where Holmes studied at university. I have heard it conjectured that he studied at Cambridge, but I know Oxford well and have always thought it the sort of place Holmes would find amenable. His college, however, I have left deliberately vague -- I will leave you to draw your own conclusions there.
> 
> A few notes for people who are unfamiliar with Oxford and its eccentricities:
> 
> \- A Provost is the head of a college. Other terms include Principal, Dean, President, Rector, Warden, or Master.  
> \- Scouts were servants of the college, usually looking after one or more students. The scout still exists in colleges today, albeit as housekeepers.  
> \- 'To dine in hall' is grammatically correct. For some reason 'hall', as far as I know, rarely has an article before it.  
> \- Most of the names in here come from Oxford in some way.  
> \- Swans on the Thames (and likely its tributaries too) belong to the Queen. Therefore as much fun as it would be for Holmes to fight a swan, it would not be entirely legal.  
> \- The legendary mallard refers to the mallard of All Souls. Please look it up. It delights me.  
> \- The giant stone heads are the heads outside the Sheldonian Theatre, which I read once supposedly hop off their pedestals on a certain night of the year and go drinking in a pub.  
> \- Please don't feed birds bread. It isn't good for them. 
> 
> No Oxford dons were harmed in the making of this story.


End file.
